


You Were Born To Make It Better

by deantops



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:25:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deantops/pseuds/deantops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three pieces from the puzzle that made up Dean Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Were Born To Make It Better

Hey Jude, don’t make it bad  
Take a sad song, and make it better  
Remember to let her into your heart  
So you can start  
To make it better  
-The Beatles

It was when Sam died for the first time that Dean lost the amulet. He clutched his fingers in his brother’s worn jacket as dread poked at his heart.  
“It’s not even that bad. It’s not even that bad, alright? Sammy? Sam!”  
He didn’t know when he’d lost it, exactly. His baby brother was dying; it wasn’t like he was paying attention to much else. Just Sam, the way his eyes were closing and his skin cooling, the way the bloodstains on Dean’s hands were growing, growing, blossoming… Would he ever clean the blood off Sam’s jacket? 

After he made the demon deal he visited the place where Sam had died. It was calmer in the morning light, less a place of nightmares and shadows than it had been in the dark, innocent and innocuous. The muddy ground had been crisscrossed with footprints, heavy boots that went with the trade. There were indentations where the brothers had knelt, the grass around it clumped and stained with blood, dark and congealed. 

To the side, a few feet away, lay the amulet. Dean thrust his hands in his jacket pockets. The jacket still smelled of John – cigarettes, booze, and peppermints. He bent down, carefully avoiding the blood, and rolled it over in his fingers. The strange, comforting face of a forgotten pagan god glinted up at him, and he tucked it into his breast pocket. He’d have to replace the string; it had broken over fifteen odd years of wear.

 

 

The second time he’d lost the amulet was when he’d been dragged to hell. Naturally, he hadn’t thought of it as the hell hound claws had dug into his skin, their hot breath on his face. Then, Sam had been on his mind. Sam had never lived without him. It had always been Dean who was there for him, who made sure he had enough to eat and a bed to sleep in. 

As the air was ripped from his lungs, he had thought of Sam.

Hell was worse than his nightmares, and he’d had plenty of those in the last twelve months. Hell was red, blood and lightning. The feeling in his stomach he’d had as he held the lifeless body of his brother in his arms. And so it goes, for forty years. 

He woke in the choking darkness, dust sifting into his mouth, through his nose, and into his lungs. His fingernails broke and cracked as he clawed his way up through the earth, his eyes smarting and chest tightening. It was all worth it, though, when he had broken through and a blinding light hit his eyes; he hadn’t seen daylight in forty years.

It wasn’t until he lay on the floor of the gas station, ears ringing as glass shattered around him, that he realized the amulet no longer hung around his neck.

 

The third time Dean Winchester lost the amulet it was of his own free will. He may have grumbled as he handed it over, but nothing was guiding his hand. The angel’s blue gaze was on him, steady and trusting, and Dean couldn’t say no. Cas had rebelled for him, hadn’t he? Had the agents of heaven after him, because of Dean. He could give him this token.

That didn’t change the feeling of loss as it left his hand.

 

The fourth time, the amulet was worthless. Cas had carried it in his pocket for months, prayed to it, held it in his hands and waited for a sign. And Dean had done the same, many times over. There was nothing to show for their troubles. He felt Sam’s eyes on his back. He didn’t care. He doubted Sam did either, judging by his memories from heaven.

The amulet made a tinny, hollow sound as it hit the bottom of the trash can.

 

It was years later before Dean thought of the amulet again. He had more years than ever on his shoulders, more lines around his eyes. He was sitting on his bed late at night when Sam was asleep, his eyes trained on the face in front of him, memorizing every detail: the sweep of a hairline, the shadows cast by years and knowledge. “Where the hell were you, man? I prayed, Cas. Every night.”

The angel looked up at the repetition of the phrase from purgatory. “ I know, Dean. I know you did.”

Dean could feel something loosen in his chest. “Then…”

“Why didn’t I answer? I couldn’t. Naomi is… persistant. But I have something for you. Something of yours.” Cas raised his hand, and dangling from his fingertips was the grotesque, minute face of one of the things Dean had lost somewhere along the road. 

Dean reached up and caught Castiel’s wrist, cradling both the angel’s hand and the amulet in his. Two pieces from the puzzle that made up Dean Winchester. Two things to make it better.


End file.
